224 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL, LITERARY AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
Jakes’ Jjurt-JfRlk 
COHDUCTED BY ASILE. 
BABIE BELL. 
Tan Pokm OF a Litti.b Lifb, ept Thshii AFim.fi Lono. 
by t. A. At DKicnr. 
Hath you not heard tbe Foot tell 
How came the dp.iuty babie Bell 
Into this world of ours? 
The gates of Heaven were left ajar ; 
With folded hands and dreamy eyes 
£ho wandered out of Paradise t 
She saw this placet, like a star, 
Hung in the depths of purple even— 
Its bridges, running to and fro, 
O’er which the white winged seraphs go, 
Bearing the ho y dead to Heaven I 
She toached a bridge of flowers—those feet, 
So light they did not bend the bells, 
Of the ce'estial asphodels I 
The fell Uka dew upon the flowers I 
.And all the air grew strongly sweet I 
And thus came dainty Bell 
Into this world of ours I 
She came and brought delioious May I 
Tho swallows Duiit beneath the eaves ; 
Like sunbeams in and out the leaves, 
The robins went, the live-long day ; 
Tbe lily swung its noiseless bed, 
And o’er the porch the trembling vice 
Seemed bursting with its veins of wine ; 
O, earth was full of pleasant smell, 
When came the dainty babie Bell 
Into this world of ours 1 
O babie, dainty babie Bell 1 
How fair she grew from day to day ; 
What woman nature filled her eyes, 
What poetry within them lay I 
So full of meaning pure, and bright 
As if she yet stood in the light 
Of those oped gates of Paridise ! 
And wo loved babie more and more, 
O never in our hearts before. 
Such ho'y love was born ; 
We felt we had a link between 
Tills real world add that unseen— 
The land of deathless morn ! 
And for tho love of those dear eyes, 
For love of her whom God led forth— 
The mother’s being oeasod on earth 
When babie came from Paradise I 
For love of him who smote our llv03, 
And woke the chords of joy and pain 
We said, sweet Chil-t!—our hearts bent down 
Like violets after rain I 
And now the orchards whic h were once 
All white and rosy in their bloom— 
Filling the crystal heart of air 
With gentle pulses of perfume, 
Were thick with yellow juicy fruit; 
The plums we:-e globes of honey rare, 
And soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell I 
The grapes were purpling in tho grange ; 
And Time wrought just as rich a change 
In little babie Beli I 
Her petit form more perfect grew, 
And in her features we could trace, 
In softened curves, her mother’s face ; 
Her angel nature ripened too. 
We thought her lovely when she camo, 
But she was holy, saint'y now, 
Around her pale and lofty brow 
We thought wo saw a ring of flame 1 
Sometimes she said a few strange words 
Whose meaning lay beyond our retch ; 
God’s hand had taken away the seal 
Which held the portals of her speech I 
She never was a child to us ; 
We never held hor being’s key ; 
We could not teach her holy thing-— 
She was Christ’s self in puilty 1 
It came upon us by degrees ; 
We saw its shadow ere it fell, 
The knowledge that our God had scat 
His messenger for babie Bell I 
We shuddered unlanguaged pain, 
And all onr thoughts ran into tears, 
And all our hopes were changed to fears j 
The sunshine into dismal rain 1 
Aloud we cried in our beliof: 
“ 0, smite us, gently, gently, God I 
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, 
And perfect grow through grief I” 
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell ; 
Her little heart cased in ours— 
Thoy’re broken caskets—babie Bell i 
At last ho came, tbe messenger, 
The messenger from unsoen lands : 
And what did dainty babie Bell ? 
She only crossed her little hands, 
She only looked meek and fair 1 
We parted back her silken hair ; 
We laid some buds upon her brow— 
Death’s biide arrayed in flowers ( 
And thus went dainty babie Bell I 
Ont of this world of ours 1 
]W. Y. Journal of Commerce, 
Written for Moore’e Rural New-Yorker. 
UNWRITTEN POETRY. 
Far down in the depths of the human heart, 
there is a fountain of pure and hallowed feel¬ 
ing, from which, at times, wells up a tide of 
emotions which words are powerless to express 
—which the soul alone can appreciate. Full 
many a hear t o’erflowiDg with sublime thoughts 
and holy imaginings, needs but “ the pen of 
fire” to hold enraptured thousands in its spell. 
The “thoughts that breathe” are there, but! 
not the “ words that burn.” Nature’s own 
inspiration fills the heart with emotions too 
deep for utterance, and the pcetry of the 
heart lies forever concealed in its own mysteri¬ 
ous shrine. 
It is not he alone whose pen may paint 
with matchless skill the glories of a sunset 
scene, or trace the beauties of a summer land¬ 
scape, that appreciates these beauties ; their in¬ 
fluence is felt, more powerfully, perhaps, by 
another, who can only ‘‘ be silent and adore.” 
Go stand by the thundering cataract, gaze in¬ 
to the deep abyss, and listen to “ the sound cf 
many waters,” as they plunge into the flotd 
below. Canst thou express thy thoughts? 
Listen to the crashing thunders, watch the 
gathering storm as it journeys “ up the cloudy I 
steep of heaven,” the lightning's vivid flash, I 
the wrath of the elements, and the conflicting 
powers of tho air ; bo sileut—it is the voice 
of God. The storm passes; the lightnings 
cease their fiery play ; tho thunder’s voice is 
hushed ; the sun appear?, and the “ bow of 
promise ” hangs upon the dark cloud of wrath, 
the band of Mercy stretched forth to stay the 
sword of Justice. Can the sublimity of the 
contrast be expressed? Is not here poetry 
that the soul alone can read ? 
Unwritten Poetry 1 It is stamped upon 
the broad blue sky—it twinkles in every star. 
It mingles in the ocean’s swelling surge, and 
glitters in the dew drop that gems the lily’s 
bell. It glows in the gorgeous colors of the 
West at tho decline of day, and rests in the 
blackened crest of the gathering storm cloud. 
It is on the mountain’s height, and in the cat¬ 
aracts roar—in tbe towering oak, and in the 
tiny flower. Wherever we see the hand of 
God, there beauty finds her dwelling place. 
Newark, N. Y , 15&5. Lucy. 
THE PRINCESS AND THE TUTOR. 
An Emperor’s daughter, who was delighted 
with the profound learning, the lively wir, and 
the strict adherence to the precepts of morality 
and religion, which characterized her tutor, 
one day inadvertently made this remark to him : 
“What a pity that so fine a soul as jours is 
not in a more agreeable body I” He made, in 
reply, tbe following inquiry : “ In what 6ort 
of vessels, madam, is your father’s wine pre¬ 
served?” “In earthen vesse's,” was the an¬ 
swer. “Gan that be possible?” replied he — 
*• Why, every citizen preserves his wine in 
earthen vessels. I should have thought that 
gold or silver ones would have been more suit 
able to the dignity of an Emperor.” “ You 
are right!” exclaimed the princess, “ and hence 
forth this mark of respect shall not be omit¬ 
ted.” In a few days, however, she again ac¬ 
costed her tutor on the subject, saying: “in 
the gaudy vessels you recommended, my fa¬ 
ther’s wine was spoiled; the spirit evaporated, 
while that wine which was placed in earthen 
one 3 improved in quality.” “ Y ery possib'e,” 
rejoined tho philosopher. “ So also with vir¬ 
tue and knowledge ; the mue humble the ex¬ 
terior of that in which they are contained, the 
more luxuriantly will they flourish, and the 
more forcibly excite our admiration.” 
THE STORM OF LIFE, 
Lifk bears on like tho stream of a mighty 
river. Our boat at first glides swiftly down 
the narrow channel, through the playful mur- 
murings of the little brook,and winding along 
its grassy borders, the trees shed their blos¬ 
soms over our young hands ; we are in hope, 
and we grasp eagerly at tbe beauties around 
us, but the stream hurries us on, and still our 
hands are empty. 
Our coarse in youth and manhood is along 
a wider and deeper flood, and amid objects 
more striking and magnificent. We are ani¬ 
mated by the moving pic'ure of enjoyment 
and industry that is paseiug belore us ; we 
aie excited by short lived success, or depressed 
and rendered miserable by some short-lived 
disappointment. But our energy aud depend¬ 
ence are both in vain. The stream bears us 
on, and our joys and grids are left behind us. 
We may be shipwrecked, but we cannot an¬ 
chor ; our voyage may be hastened, but we 
cannot be delayed ; whether rough or smooth, 
the river hastens to wauls its home ; tho roar¬ 
ing of the waves is beneath our keel, and the 
laud lessens from our eyes ; tbe floods are lift¬ 
ed up around us, and we take our last leave of 
earth and its inhabitants, and of 0 ”r future 
voyage, there is no witness but the infinite and 
the eternal .—Bishop Heber. 
WOMAN’S TRUE BEAUTY- 
It is a low and degrading idea of that ?ex 
which was created to refine the joys and soften 
the cares of humanity by the most agreeable 
participation, to consider them merely as ob¬ 
jects of sight. This is abridging them of their 
natural extent of power, to put them upon a 
level with their pictures. IIow much nobler 
is the contemplation of beauty heightened by 
virtue and commanding our esteem and love, 
while it draws our observation. Colors art¬ 
fully spread upon canvass may entertain the 
eye, but not the heart; and she who takes no 
care to add to the Datura! graces of her person 
any excelling qualities, may bo allowed still to 
amuse, as a picture, but not to triumph as a 
beauty. When Adam is introduced by Mil- 
ton, describing Eve ia Paradise, and relating 
to the Angel the impressions he felt upon see¬ 
ing her at her first creation, he does not rep¬ 
resent her like a Grecian Venus, by her shape 
or features, but by the lustre of her mind 
which shone in them, and gave them the power 
of charming: 
Grace was in ail her steps, heaven in her eye, 
In all her gestures dignity and love. 
A Beautiful Custom.— Among the French 
settlers in Canada, on tho lower St. Lawrence, 
is a very peculiar custom,—something like the 
golden marriage in Germany. 
“ Whenever a venerable couple have trod 
the path of life together for fifty years, they 
summon to a banquet under their roof, from 
i very quarter of tho land, all their children 
and grand-childreD, in whose presence is re¬ 
performed the ceremony that made them man 
and wife half a century before, when the feast- 
ing and dancing, which continues for two or 
three nights together, bespeaks a most heart¬ 
felt happiness as well as gratitude; and at 
the expiration of every five years from that 
period until separated by death, the aged pair 
continue to repeat the ceremony of publicly 
pledging their vows of fidelity and truth.” 
Somebody says, very beautifully : “ As the 
small planets are nearest tho sun, so are little 
children nearest to God.” 
TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
[ Oonctudod from last page.] 
“ Indeed, Sir, I kaow not. how to express 
my thanks.” 
“ Then don’t express them at all,” said the 
old man, fumbling over his tape-tied docu¬ 
ments. “ I can’t send the papers just now, 
but my clerk shall carry them round tc-mor- 
row morning. Give me your address, madam, 
if you please.” 
After she wa3 gore, old Mr. Gray sat mus¬ 
ing at, his desk for some time. More than 
once he essayed to proceed with the learned 
opinion he was writing out, but as often as he 
took up his pen, that wan, melancholy face 
rise up before him like a vision,—the large, 
unnaturally brilliant eyoswiih their torrowful 
lustre,—the drooping eye lids and the v?bite 
hands ; and the old lawyer pushed aside his 
papers at length with an impat'ent “ pshaw I” 
and looked into the gathering twilight with¬ 
out, whore the snow was failing white and 
steadily, and tho wind wailed past, like a 
homeless spirit. 
“ I hope she got home before the storm was 
so bad,” he thought, as he inducted himself 
into k s fur-collared great coat and comforta 
ble wrappers. “ I wish I had sent John with 
her. It was not a long walk to his stately 
macrion, and he wa3 scon in the bright draw¬ 
ing room whose crimson silk curtains swept 
the floor with their graceful flow, and whose 
glittering chandelier diffused a soft radiance 
through the room. The coals glowed redly in 
the pohshed grate, and his easy chair, with its 
velvet cu hions stood in its accustomed place 
before the cheerful fire, and his daughter, a fair, 
graceful girl of eighteen or twenty, the image 
other dead mother, welcomed him, with a glad 
smile, to his home of peace and plenty. 
“ Well, papa, I have been very busy tc-day,” 
she said, as they resumed their seats in the 
drawing room after dinner. 
“ More deeds of mercy and charity, Susy ?” 
he asked ; but his eyes were still fixed on the 
glowing coa'.e, from whose fiery depth a mourn¬ 
ful, pa 1 lid face seemed to gaze out upon him 
like a ghost. 
She went on, with girlish artlessness, to fell 
him of tbe place where she had been, and the 
want and suffering she had witnessed ; for Su 
san Gray, unlike most young girls of her 
rank and station in society, found her chief 
pleasure in supplying the wants of the needy 
out of her own abundance, and was like an 
angel of mercy and gentleness to many aud 
many a breaking heart. Her father, brought 
by his profession in daily contact with the 
worst side of humau nature, and inuied by 
long habitude to doubt and distrust of his fel¬ 
low creatures, saw in her tho bright embodi¬ 
ment of Christian loveliness and truth, aud 
daily learned in her conduct how much purity 
and beauty there still remains in that humau- 
ity whose great ancestor was once created so 
bright and stainless in the image of his God. 
“And oh, father!” she said, as she paused 
in her narration, “ how strange it seems that 
we are reveling in wea th and luxury, while so 
many of our fellow creatures are starving 
around us, for want of a single morsel of 
bread.” 
<• Susy, ’ said the old gentleman, laying his 
hand tenderly on her golden hair, “ there is an¬ 
other object to which I wish your charity to 
extend ; you must go and see her and comfort 
her yourself. I wanted to go, but woman is 
the best consoler for womankind, after all.” 
And be told her of tho pallid creature whom 
he had seen that afternoon, and how deep a 
hold she had taken of his imagination. 
“ I don’t know what some of my business 
friends would have said to my giving a bank 
note to a woman I never saw before, and who 
might, for all my knowledge to the contrary, 
have been an impostor,” he said smiling, “ but 
an impulse I could not resist came over me.” 
“It was like yourself, dearest father,” said 
Susan, who had listened with flushed cheek 
and kindling eye to her father’s relation.— 
“ To-morrow you must go and see this poor, 
starving thing—we will both go. Oh! to 
think that almost in the shadow of our prinee- 
ly homes, our brethren should be perishing of 
want! For I often think, papa, of those fear¬ 
ful yet beautiful words in scripture, ‘ For un¬ 
to us hath much been given,and much will be 
required.’ ” 
The sun of the next day was sinking behind 
the house-tops, as Mrs. 1Ioi*k sat beside her 
husband's pillow, with a look of brightness 
on her face to which it had long been a stran¬ 
ger. He had been sleeping long and heavily ; 
it was the crisis of tho fever whoee slow fires 
had been raging so long and pitilessly in his 
system, and th»s sleep was a favorable sign, as 
the docter said. No wonder, then, that she 
watched his slumbers with a joyful smi'e, and 
blessed every moment of that calm repose. 
Suddenly he woke. 
“ I thought I heard voices, Mary ; who has 
been here ? ” 
She lifted her Anger softly. “ Hush, dear¬ 
est, the doctor says you must not talk.” 
lie looked mournfully at her waatod hand. 
“Is that your hand, Mary? Akisl” fee 
added, as remembrance broke upon him,“ you 
! are starving, my wife, and I—I have no pow¬ 
er to aid you.” 
He (sank back upon his fevered pillow with 
a groan. 
“ Dearest,” she s aid, beading over him, “y-ou 
have been very, very ill for many weeks, and 
when delirium has been upon you, I have 
heard you talk of Sunnyford. I have heard 
y ou long to be back there, under the old 
beach tree by the river side. You sighed for 
the dear old homestead—for the sweet breath 
of spring across tho woods in tho hollow. 
Would you like to return once more to Sun- 
nyford ? ” 
“ Would I like to return once more to Sun- 
nyford? ” he repea'ed vagne’y. 
“ For while you have been as’eep, Thomas, 
a great mercy has descended upon us from the 
Lord-a-help has come to me ia my extremity 
when I least expected it.” 
lie listened with surprise while she told him 
of the kindly visitors who had just kfc them 
--how she had re’ated to them hor simple sto¬ 
ry of want and suffering—alas 1 too common 
a tale—and how they had heard with pity 
and tenderness. And when I had told them 
all this, the kkd old gentleman camo to your 
bedside and looked u..ou you, and although 
his face was turned away, 1 could see 'he tear 
shining in his eye. Ho told me to dismiss all 
care and anxiety for the future—he had ta 
ken a great fancy to us, he said, and just as 
soon a 3 you were able to be moved, ail these 
wearisome debts should bo discharged, and we 
should all go back to clear old Sunnyford once 
again. Much more to tbe same purpose she 
talked, of tho old mau and his lovely daugh 
ter, and Thomas Hopr listened with gra’c'ul 
tears and inward thanksgiving. A year ago 
he could have turned away with haughty 
pride from aid like this, but now his spirit 
lmd been tried and refined in the furnace of 
affliction, and ho was a wiser, meeker, better 
man. 
The door opened, and their eldest child en¬ 
tered—a little slender thing—in tears, carry¬ 
ing a tiny flower-pot, with a withered rose tree 
in it. Her little flower, so loved and cher¬ 
ished, during the loDg, dark winter months— 
the last relic of woods and fields—was dead. 
“ Do not mii:d it, darling,” said her mother 
careesingly. I hope ere long wo shall all be 
where the very ground will be carpeted with 
flowers and grass.” 
little Mary knelt beside her mother with 
brightening eyts, but still in their biue depths 
there was a tear of mournful regret for the 
poor,dead rcee tree, her friend through all the 
weary months of arid summer and bleak win¬ 
ter, for which all the wealth of spring blossoms 
that ever bloomed cou'd scarcely compensate. 
Tho recovery of Thomas IIopis was long 
and tedious, in spite of the kindly benefactors, 
who left no means untried to hasten it, but 
wher it was at length complete, ho prepared, 
with a joyful heart, to return to his native 
village, and to tho welcoming breath of his 
brother, who wan, as yet, entirely unaware of 
his misfortunes and sickness; far Thomas 
Hope, proud alike in prosperity and adversity, 
could not bear that even his beloved brother 
should know of h's reverses, and since fortune 
had begun to frown upon him, had carefully 
concealed his address. He did not know how 
anxiously his brother looked for tidiDgs from 
him, nor how much he was missed and mourned 
from the circle in the old farm house at home. 
It was bloomy June in the woods and hol¬ 
lows around sweet Sunnyford. The gray o’d 
stones of the homestead farm house were hid¬ 
den with climbing roses aud cliDging honey¬ 
suckle vine?. Around the steps of the porch 
blowed wildernesses of roses, whito and crim¬ 
son, whoso fragrant petals floated like fairy 
spirits on tie wandering wind, and fell in 
showers of bloom oil the velvet turf below. 
Every soft breeze that murmured by, was la¬ 
den with the sweet breath of flowers and grass 
and opening buds, and fell like healing balm 
on the brow of the returned wanderer, who 
drank in its incense so eagerly. 
Yes, they were united once more, a happy 
group in the little porch, looking out on the 
familiar prospect of wood and vale, bathed in 
the golden light of sunset; aud the soul of 
Thomas IIopk wa3 full of a deep gratitude 
and voiceless joy. William, who sat beside 
him, watching with anxious tenderness every 
emotion that crossed his features, was no less 
rejoiced that, even through sorrow, loss and 
sufLrirg, his brother had come back to the 
home of his childhood, with a wiser, more 
contented heart. 
“ I shall never wish to leave this pleasant 
place again, William,” said Thomas, with a 
smile, as he caught his brother’s affectionate 
glance. “ I have learned that there is more 
happiness to be found in our simple, quiet ex¬ 
istence here, than all the world besides can of¬ 
fer. It has been a severe le3S0D, but not tho 
less useful to me; aud all I regret is tho loss 
of your little capital, which was thrown away 
by my indiscretion. Do not try to check ine, 
William, for I am determined to look my 
folly boldly in the face, aud shall not rest un¬ 
til I have returned to yon the uttermost far¬ 
thing, and also repaid my kind friend and ben¬ 
efactor, Mr. Gray. I cannot discharge tba 
debt of gratitude I owe him—that were a 
vain un fie (taking—but I 3hail not cease to 
feel it, while a pulse of life beats in mj bosom. 
But for him, I might never have seen these 
dear familiar scenes again. Ai.d oh! Wil¬ 
liam, you were right when you said that there 
was no li r e like that of the country. I shall 
dwell in its peaceful calm, as long as life is 
vouchsafed me, and when I die, I should liko 
to be buried beneath the green sod of oar lit¬ 
tle churchyard on the hill beyond, where the 
red sunset light is shining so brightly even 
now 1” 
New York, July, lS.’S). 
AMERICAN NEWSPAPERS. 
During the late debates in the British Par- 
limeut on the bill to abolish the newspaper 
stamp, 8ir Edward Bulwer Lytton said : 
It is the taste of the public that forma the 
newspaper, not the newspaper that forms the 
taste of the public ; and if tho press is an hon¬ 
or to the country it is because it represents 
what honors the country still more,—the good 
sense and civilized humanity from which the 
press tales its color and its tone. Now, you 
have been told that this change will degrade 
our press to the level of ihe American, and 
and you have been led to infer that the 
American press is left in tbe hands of igno¬ 
rant, adventurers, whereas the remarkable pe¬ 
culiarity of the American press is that it ab¬ 
sorbs nearly ulljihe in'eilect of that country. 
There is scarcely a statesman of eminence, an 
author of Lime, who does not contribute to 
tho American periodical press; and,therefore, 
the editor of one of their journals says on this 
very subject, “ If the American press is infe¬ 
rior to the English, it merely argues that the 
intellect of tbe country is inferior, for nearly 
all the available intellect of the United States 
is engaged in their press.” This serves to 
show you that if onr press i3 superior to the 
American, it doe's not depend upon the fiscal 
laws, but upon the general standard of civili¬ 
zation ; in other words, the press can but re¬ 
flect the public. 
DINING AT SEA IN A GALE. 
The; following graphic scene on shipboard 
is depicted by a correspondent of the' Phila¬ 
delphia Bulletin: 
“ There is but a step from the sublime to 
Ihe ridiculous, from the deck to the saloon.— 
It is rather too much trouble for a lazy man 
to eat on shipboard in rough weather. It 
would require a mau to have the huudred 
hands of Briareu3 and tbe huudred eyes of 
Argus, and to keep them all in constant oc¬ 
cupation, too, to dine in safety, to say nothing 
of comfort—for that,, under the circumstances, 
is totally out of the question. You have to 
hold on to your plate to keep it near you ; to 
hold on to your glass of water to avoid the 
unnecessary luxury of au extempore shower- 
bath ; to hold on to yourself to keep yourself 
at the table; to hold on to the table to keep 
yourself off the top of it and away from your 
neighbors. Besides this, to dodge or defend 
yourself, a3 the case may be, from the flying 
dishes that occasionally make little excursions 
on their own respon ability. A man that can 
get, his victuals on board a ship in a storm, 
can get his living anywhere ; he need have no 
fear of the future, so far at least as eating ia 
concerned.” 
Courtesy. — Wm. Wirt’s letter to his 
daughter on the “ small, sweet courtesies of 
life,” contains a passage from which a deal of 
happiness might be learned:—“ 1 want to tell 
you a secret. The way to make yourself 
pleasing to others is to show that you care 
for thorn. The world is liko the miller at 
Mansfield, ‘ who cared for nobody—no not ho 
—because nobody cared for him.’ And the 
whole world will serve you so if you give 
them the same cause. I-et every one, there¬ 
fore, Bee that you do care for them, by show¬ 
ing them what Sterne ?o happily calls ‘ the 
small, sweet courtesies,’ in which there is no 
parade; whose voice Is to still, to ea c e, and 
which manifest themselves by tender aud affec¬ 
tionate looks, and littlo kind acta of atten¬ 
tion, giviug others the preference in every lit¬ 
tle enjoyment at the table, in the field, walk¬ 
ing sitting or standing.” 
“ Seeing thk Lions.” —Formerly there was 
a menagerie in the tower of London, in which 
lions wore kept ; it was discontinued about 
forty years ago. During these times of com¬ 
parative simplicity, when a stranger visited 
the metropolis for the first time, it was usual 
to take him to the Tower aud show him tho 
lions as one of the chief signts ; and on the 
stranger’s return to the country it was usual 
to ask him whether ho had seen the lions.— 
Now-a-days, when a Londoner visits the 
country for the first time, he is taken by his 
friends to see the most remarkable objects of 
the place, which are called “ the lions. ’ One 
constantly hears the expression, “ wo havo 
been lionizing,” or “seeing the lions;” but 
thousands who make use of it are ignorant of 
its origin. It originated as above .—Notes 
and Queries. 
Thk Nkgaiuvely Poetical exists every¬ 
where. Tno life of almost every man, however 
prosaic to himself, is full of these dumb melo¬ 
dies to his neighbor. The farmer looks from 
the hillside and sees tho tall ship lean forward 
with its desire for the ocean, every full-hearted 
sail yearning seaward, and takes passage with 
her from his drufigery to the beautilul onnjeo- 
tured laud. Meanwhile he himself has Pega¬ 
sus yoked to his plow without knowing it, 
and tho sailor looked back, sees him sowing 
his field with the graceful idyl of summer and 
harvest. Littlo did tho needle-woman dream 
that she was stitching pas.siou aud pathos into 
bar weary seam, till Hood oame ami found 
them theie.— Lowell. 
